Icebergs just the tip of the experience

Our tour guide serenaded us with her accordion as our 14-metre passenger boat left Bay Bulls harbour. As we rounded the point and chugged into Witless Bay, the vista we'd come to see unfolded before us.

Giant icebergs, some the size of small ocean liners, floated in the open sea. Sunlight showcased blinding white glacial ice with turquoise highlights on the indigo ocean.

The ocean corridor from the east coast of Labrador to Newfoundland's southern shore is known as Iceberg Alley. It's the only place on the planet you can see these mighty icebergs making their way down the Atlantic Ocean from Greenland.

I landed at the St. John's airport past midnight. Nevertheless, I called City Hostel with slim hope someone would still be available to drive me into St. John's. A sleepy voice answered and said the airport shuttle service ended several hours ago. But an exception was made and 20 minutes later, Dave Barron, the hostel owner, showed up to chauffeur me.

When I told him I wanted to have a beer before turning in, he suggested I drop my gear off at the hostel and he'd drive me to a pub.

Inexpensive, meticulously clean and near to the centre of town, the hostel is one of the best deals going. Built like a typical St. John's row house, I felt like I was coming home at the end of the day. Especially since it had laundry facilities, a kitchen and a living room.

Dave was usually in the office. He runs the shuttle service to and from the airport at half the cost of a taxi. That is, if you can get him to take your money. He also operates tours. When they aren't full, hostel guests get a handsome discount. As a local, he knows the best places to eat and drink.

Dave recommended Velma's Place on Water Street for fresh Newfoundland cod. Velma's is an unassuming restaurant that probably serves the best traditional Newfoundland cuisine in the world, including scallops, mussels and lobster in season.

Velma's pan-fried cod makes all other cod dishes I've tried taste anemic in comparison. It was served with "scruncheons," a Newfoundland favourite made of small pieces of pork rind fried until they are crispy. Salty and cholesterol-rich, scruncheons are like the islanders themselves -- full of unpretentious flavour.

At 73 years old and somewhere under five foot three, Stephen Lane is one such salty Newfoundlander. He's a familiar figure at watering holes on George Street, the heart of St. John's pub district.

I first met him at O'Reilly's, where he was lord of the dance floor. First he jigged solo. Before long, an attractive young woman joined him. That ignited the place and soon the dance floor was full of dancers jigging to the Celtic band.

"Before Stephen started jigging, he was six foot six," the musician on stage joked.

In Newfoundland, humour is as ubiquitous as Celtic music. Most of the Newfoundlanders I met shared a joke, a strongly held opinion or a song with me.

I had it in my mind to bring an accordion home and learn to play it as a way to keep part of Newfoundland with me. Dave directed me to O'Brien's, a traditional Newfoundland music store. It has bragging rights to being "the oldest store on the oldest street in the oldest city in North America."

Once again, Dave steered me to the right spot. A wall of shelving that ran behind the counter was devoted to row upon row of accordions. Proprietor Gordon O'Brien served me. He was congenial, walking me through the arcane minutiae of the accordion.

"What chord do you want to play in?" he asked.

Apparently accordions come in a couple of different chords and with one chord or two. I don't have an opinion about which chord I prefer.

The patient shop owner realized the depth of my ignorance and talked me out of my purchase. Instead, I took a portrait of him with his wall of accordions as my keepsake. He suggested I go a couple of doors down to hear some of St. John's finest accordion players.

Auntie Crae's Tuesday afternoon jam sessions are a tradition. The century-old general store has been renovated into a specialty grocery store that sells everything from artisan jellies, sandwiches and coffee to loose tea and exotic spices. The musical variety of jam takes place in a large lunchroom that opens from the store. It was packed with locals listening to several musicians, among them the promised accordion players.

It used to be that no one moved to St. John's. The province's fisheries were in decline and the young and employable left in droves. Not now. Offshore oil is creating an economic boom in the province and St. John's is becoming known as Canada's "funky capital." With house prices up an average of 23 per cent over last year, realtors act as mediators in heated bidding wars.

The boom extends beyond St. John's to villages like Tors Cove on the South Shore. I found the village in my never-ending quest for icebergs.

I'd driven my rental car south, searching for the East Coast Trail, a network of over 500 kilometres of hiking trails, about 220 of which are developed. I'd intended on taking a short hike, but rugged coastline, spectacular vistas of ocean and icebergs around every bend lured me ever farther. After a couple of hours walking, I was still promising myself to turn around after the next bend.

Just outside of Tors Cove, I met a local named Scott, a transplanted from Halifax via Alberta's oilsands, now retired here. He was resting on a rock surveying the icebergs as they lazily floated down Iceberg Alley.

He invited me to have a beer on the patio of his comfortable shack, which is nestled on a hillside overlooking the dramatic coastline. We chatted while we watched the icebergs bobbing in the cove and farther out at sea. Scott shared gossip about the village and talked about local real estate prices. He said pieces of coastal paradise were selling for a fraction of what they'd cost on Canada's West Coast.

I didn't see any signs of the real estate boom the next day when I travelled by car up Route 80 on the Avalon Peninsula.

It led me through semi-deserted hamlets with faded wooden houses dotting the rugged windswept shoreline. Icebergs dazzled me as they nonchalantly drifted by on the sparkling sea.

I went north up Conception Bay to Bay de Verde, a fishing community first settled in 1662. Bay de Verde describes itself as "A Town With A View."

I stopped the car to check it out. What I saw perfectly punctuated my adventure.

There, parked in the middle of the harbour like it owned the place, was a monster iceberg. It dwarfed the fishing boats. I knew I'd reached my final destination.

Almost Done!

Postmedia wants to improve your reading experience as well as share the best deals and promotions from our advertisers with you. The information below will be used to optimize the content and make ads across the network more relevant to you. You can always change the information you share with us by editing your profile.

By clicking "Create Account", I hearby grant permission to Postmedia to use my account information to create my account.

I also accept and agree to be bound by Postmedia's Terms and Conditions with respect to my use of the Site and I have read and understand Postmedia's Privacy Statement. I consent to the collection, use, maintenance, and disclosure of my information in accordance with the Postmedia's Privacy Policy.

Postmedia wants to improve your reading experience as well as share the best deals and promotions from our advertisers with you. The information below will be used to optimize the content and make ads across the network more relevant to you. You can always change the information you share with us by editing your profile.

By clicking "Create Account", I hearby grant permission to Postmedia to use my account information to create my account.

I also accept and agree to be bound by Postmedia's Terms and Conditions with respect to my use of the Site and I have read and understand Postmedia's Privacy Statement. I consent to the collection, use, maintenance, and disclosure of my information in accordance with the Postmedia's Privacy Policy.